


Petals and Raindrops

by CaptainCoughdrop



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drinking, He just is, Kiku gets drunk, M/M, More tags to follow, alcahol, and Yong Soo is a sweetheart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-03-20 06:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18987253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCoughdrop/pseuds/CaptainCoughdrop
Summary: Honda Kiku and Im Yong Soo don't talk. They just don't. Haven't for years. It's an unwritten agreement they have.Until, of course, Kiku - drunk and in the mood to talk - approaches Yong Soo in the lobby of a hotel in Moscow. This starts a chain reaction, and nobody could guess where it would lead.(Spoiler alert: everyone who knew the could guess where it would lead. Yong Soo and Kiku are just oblivious.)





	1. The Beginning

“Yong Soo-kun!”

Im Yong Soo looked up in surprise. He’d been on a mission to grab a hot chocolate from the cafe in the next street and given the lateness of the hour – it was three a.m.- he hadn’t expected anyone else to be up.

But there was Japan – Kiku Honda to his friends, whoever _they_ were – meandering towards him, shirt untucked, trousers rumpled, hair mussed up and a faint flush high on his cheekbones. He beamed at Yong Soo, who raised his eyebrows in surprise.

He’d known that Kiku- _Japan_ \- was staying in the hotel, of course; apparently his delegation, like Yong Soo’s, were staying behind in Europe for extra meetings with the Russians. To be frank, Yong Soo wasn’t even totally sure what the meetings were about, past building good relations and buttering each other up. He probably wouldn’t even have gone, if he hadn’t been in Europe to attend a World Summit in Chisinau anyway, from which he caught the train to Moscow to meet with his politicians so they could take the same plane back together. As far as he knew, since he’d spotted Kiku at the same station in Chisinau, they’d taken the same very long and boring train ride, but they’d obviously been seated in different carriages, and the next time Yong Soo had seen him was at the breakfast buffet of their hotel. (And wasn’t it typical that they were in the same one? Granted, it was one that often catered to meetings of this variety in the area, but still.)

Yong Soo had, naturally, been studiously avoiding his Japanese counterpart so far – he got the distinct impression that Kiku was doing the same – and other than an excruciatingly awkward elevator ride together, they’d both met their goals rather well. In fact, Yong Soo had even managed to half-forget that Kiku was even at the hotel at all.

Which was probably why it was quite so unexpected to bump into him at three in the morning. Especially since Kiku was very clearly inebriated.

“Yong Soo-kun!” Kiku repeated once he reached him (he briefly seemed to forget exactly how walking worked so it took a minute), “Anyeong-haseyo!”

Yong Soo wondered exactly why he hadn’t turned on his heel and walked off in the other direction and back to his room with his damn hot chocolate yet. Maybe it was surprise – Kiku hadn’t called Yong Soo anything except ‘South Korea-san’ in decades, and it had certainly been a long while since he’d spoken to him in Korean. It made Yong Soo feel a little more charitable towards him, at least.

“How-” Kiku hiccupped, “How are you?”

“I’m ok,” answered Yong Soo, cursing himself for leaving his phone in his room. He’d seen Kiku tipsy, but never full on off his face before, and Jenaida would kill him if he didn’t get some video evidence.

Kiku smiled widely at this rather barebones reply, and grabbed Yong Soo’s arm (Yong Soo stiffened slightly, not so much out of a dislike of being touched as sheer surprise), which was stupidly exposed in his thin K-pop t-shirt. He’d gravely underestimated the coldness of the Moscow winter. He’d thought a quick five-minute jaunt would be refreshing after the stuffy heat of his hotel room. He was mistaken.

Kiku’s hand was warm and rough, and his grip pretty strong for someone who was swaying on his feet – but he supposed that was to be expected. Countries were always freaky strong, it was just that few flaunted it the way Alfred or Ivan tended to do. Yong Soo frowned and raised an eyebrow.

“Would you like a drink, Yong Soo-kun?” Kiku asked, raising a previously unseen bottle of vodka (mostly empty, no wonder he was swaying). “Where were you?”

“No, and I went to a café,” answered Yong Soo, amused despite himself and doing his best not to show it.

“You went to a café without a coat? In Russia? In the winter?” Even drunk, Kiku’s judgemental stare was on point. “That was… that was dumb.”

“What are you doing awake?” shot back Yong Soo, grabbing Kiku’s shoulder and leading him to the couch after the Japanese man gave a particularly dramatic sway to the left. “And what about you? Drinking before a meeting? Is _that_ a good idea?”

Kiku waved his hand dismissively, almost hitting himself in the face – Yong Soo snorted. “My attendance isn’t really necessary. I don’t know why they made me come. You know.”

Yong Soo did know. Bosses, for some reason, seemed to like carting nations along with them to meetings, like sentient good-luck charms.

“Me and young Hirose-kun decided to have a drinking game,” Kiku went on, pausing to take a swig out of the vodka bottle before Yong Soo could stop him (if he drank much more he’d pass out, and that wouldn’t make for a funny video to send Jenaida. It wasn’t that he was concerned, or anything.). “He fell asleep a while ago, so I sat and kept drinking, then I decided to go to my room, but I got lost, then I ran into Yong Soo-kun!” He gave Yong Soo another smile and went to take another drink, as though this was something remarkable that should be celebrated. Yong Soo caught his thin wrist.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he said, hearing the Yao-esque ‘stern parent’ tone in his own voice and thinking his Hyung-nim would probably be proud of how authoritative he sounded (and that Harish-nim would be proud that he was trying to help Kiku at all). Kiku pouted – he fucking _pouted_ , like a _child_ – and gave Yong Soo motherfucking _puppy dog eyes_. Yong Soo shook himself. The world had truly gone mad. “I’m not giving it back.”

He got up and threw it in the bin. Kiku watched him mournfully.

“You’re mean,” he grumbled. “I wanted that.”

“You’re already going to have a killer hangover,” answered Yong Soo, fighting a smile at seeing the Great and Proud Japan pouting and slouched on a chair like a teenager.

And damn, thinking of teenage Japan – that was a blast from the past. He hadn’t thought about the short (shorter), acne-ridden proto-Kiku in a while. Which was a shame, because he could distinctly remember many moments of significant comedic value that involved him, back when they’d both lived with Yao and before Kiku had got his head lodged so very firmly up his own arse. He’d have to remember to tell some of them Siu Chun later on.

“Come on. You want help getting back to your room?”

“Yes please,” nodded Kiku, standing and wobbling like one of those baby antelope in wildlife documentaries. “Do you know where it is?”

“No.” Yong Soo gazed at him incredulously. “Don’t you?”

Kiku snickered. “No. I got lost, remember?”

Yong Soo sighed, but somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to be too upset, even though by all accounts he definitely should be. “Alright. Well, you can come with me, if you want.”

“You’re so kind!” Kiku gushed, eyes sparkling with gratitude. Yong Soo flushed slightly, rubbed the back of his neck, and motioned for Kiku to follow him.

_Of course_ the elevator was out of service.

“Well, we’re going to have to take the stairs,” he said. Kiku gazed blankly at him. “Stairs?”

“Oh!” Kiku blushed and turned away. “Yes. Where are the stairs?”

Yong Soo led him to the staircase and started up, wondering if Kiku got this lost when he was sober. They got up one flight before he noticed that Kiku wasn’t trailing behind him anymore.

“Kiku?” He turned and looked behind him, and just when he was starting to panic – visions of Kiku tripping and falling down the stairs came to mind – he saw that Kiku had sank down into a crouch, giggling and clutching onto the bannister for support. Yong Soo approached him. “Come on.”

“They won’t,” grinned Kiku.

“Can’t what?”

“My legs won’t work right.” Kiku knocked his feet together for emphasis. Yong Soo rolled his eyes and reached down.

“Stand up.”

He managed to bring Kiku to his feet – it wasn’t hard, he didn’t weigh that much – only for him to fall against Yong Soo’s chest, still laughing. No other option, then. Yong Soo scooped Kiku up, and his smaller counterpart generously wrapped his legs around Yong Soo’s waist and his arms around his neck. He was very light. It felt weird to be doing this – to be touching Kiku at all. Yong Soo had spent so long watching him from afar – _hating_ him from afar, for the last few decades – that it felt like some sort of spell had been broken. Yong Soo felt like this shouldn’t be happening, because more than anything – more than Kiku staggering about like a newborn foal, more than Kiku collapsing into fits of laughter, more than the fact that he was currently resting his chin on Yong Soo’s shoulder and humming – more than anything since they’d been kids together all those centuries ago it made Kiku seem _human_.

Yong Soo swallowed, and shook his head – Kiku made a sound of complaint when Yong Soo messed up his hair, like _that_ was the main problem here – because his thoughts were headed down a dangerous path, and instead decided to focus on getting to his room without bumping into anything, and preferably without seeing anybody.

They made it up the rest of the stairs with no more incidents, and Yong Soo decided that – since Kiku was light anyway – just to carry him all the way to his room. “Come on. I’ll carry you to my room and you can sleep on the sofa, huh?”

Kiku laughed again. “That’s very forward, Yong Soo-kun. Taking me to bed before we’ve even gone out to dinner.”

“Ha ha,” Yong Soo said, blushing, and briefly considering dumping him right there in the corridor. Instead, he decided on shifting his grip so he could open the door that led to the corridor his room was on. Kiku nuzzled into his neck – Yong Soo jumped out of his skin and almost tripped over his own feet – and began singing what sounded like a lullaby in Japanese.

“ _Bōya no omori wa… Doko e itta… Ano yama koete… Sato e itta…_ ”

Yong Soo huffed, and once again shifted his grip so that he could use his keycard to get into his room. In doing that, Kiku was shifted so that his head was tucked under Yong Soo’s chin. His hair – despite his otherwise rumpled appearance – was soft and shiny and clean. As he leant down to slot the card in, he ended up with his nose buried in it. Underneath the alcohol, Kiku smelt like matcha and a little bit like cherry blossom. Obviously, Yong Soo would _never_ usually do this, but since he couldn’t be bothered to pick Kiku back up from the floor, and since – drunk as he was – Kiku was hardly going to remember in the morning, he magnanimously decided to put up with it.

“Ew! Don’t wipe your nose in my hair!” whined Kiku, wriggling like a discontented cat. Yong Soo found himself actually laughing as he finally got the door open and stepped inside. His room was just as he’d left it, and he dropped Kiku unceremoniously on his bed. The Japanese man snickered, curling up on his side and watching Yong Soo with his wicked brown eyes.

“Sleep,” ordered Yong Soo, flopping onto the bed beside him, still not entirely sure why he was doing this, because as amusing as it was now, it was going to set new records for awkwardness come morning.

“But I’m not tired!” Kiku thought for a moment. In his inebriated state, it looked like hard work. “I know! We will watch a movie!”

“What kind of movie?”

Kiku sucked his teeth for a minute, before shrugging. “A movie Yong Soo-kun likes.”

Yong Soo shrugged, and took a sip of his not-really-that-hot-anymore chocolate. It was probably just as well that Kiku wasn’t in the mood for a nap – if he had been, those videos Yong Soo fully intended to take and send to Siu Chun would be rather more creepy than funny. Worse than that, they’d also bring on the horror that was all members of the extended family who were older than him – Harish, Yao, Soe, etcetera – each giving him not only constant and extremely embarrassing Knowing Looks, but doubtless a few painfully earnest private talks, since every member of the family more than two years older than him all seemed to be under the impression that Yong Soo was entirely incapable of sorting out his love-life for himself.

“That one!”

Yong Soo jumped, spilling hot chocolate down his shirt and almost dropping the remote from where he’d been scrolling listlessly through movies on Netflix. It was alright, really – the shirt was old, he caught the remote, and the hot chocolate had cooled enough that it wasn’t painful, just mildly unpleasant.

However, Kiku didn’t seem to realise the non-gravity of this non-situation and scrambled up from his rather crumpled position at the head of the bed to Yong Soo’s side, almost falling off the bed in the process.

“Oh dear, Yong Soo-kun!” Kiku made it to his side and immediately started fussing – as Yong Soo could remember him being very prone to doing back when they were younger, whether the situation called for it or not – clutching Yong Soo’s arm as though the dark stains on Yong Soo’s t-shirt were blood rather than lukewarm hot chocolate. “Have you burnt yourself? I’m so sorry!”

“I’m fine, it wasn’t that hot,” answered Yong Soo. He couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed by all the attention he was getting, and he usually enjoyed positive attention. But Kiku hadn’t been focused on him – had barely looked at him – in so long, it was weird. It was also bringing up some rather inconvenient feelings that Yong Soo had thought he’d left safely behind – or rather, buried so deeply that he wouldn’t have to think of them again so that they could fade into nothing in peace – in the 1870s.

“Oh dear,” said Kiku again, stroking Yong Soo’s arm as though he had a traumatic injury, “You poor thing – and your nice shirt is ruined!”

“It’s okay,” Yong Soo reiterated, setting down the cup and looking down at the t-shirt. “It’s not one of my nice ones.”

Kiku bit his lip, and Yong Soo was startled, when he turned to face him, to see how genuinely upset Kiku was. He looked nearly on the verge of tears, for God’s sake. Of course, he wasn’t _actually_ going to cry, and Yong Soo knew that – the last time he’d seen Kiku do that was over a thousand years ago, easily – but it was still closer than Yong Soo had ever seen him get since that point.

“Hey,” he said a little awkwardly, “Listen, it’s seriously fine – this is an old t-shirt, and the band was kinda bad anyway.”

“Oh.” Kiku chewed his lips anxiously. His warm hands were still loosely holding Yong Soo’s arm, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Well, maybe you should take off your shirt, just to make sure.”

Yong Soo was suddenly strongly reminded, oddly, not of Yao or Lien but of Harish. If this had been Yao, and he thought there was a chance Yong Soo had hurt himself, he’d _tell_ Yong Soo to take his shirt off so he could check. Harish, on the other hand, was someone with a great belief in the power of asking nicely, and did so to devastating effect, because very few people could bring themselves to refuse Harish when he brought out his own special brand of business-like niceness.

“Trust me, it was already pretty much cold.”

“But-”

“ _Relax_ , Kiku-shi.”

Yong Soo stood and pulled off his shirt – he _despised_ the feeling of wet clothing – and chucked it into the basket by the bed. Then he turned and walked across the room to his suitcase, only to stop. Slowly, he turned back to Kiku on the bed. His companion was staring at him, wide-eyed with apparent disbelief.

“… What?” asked Yong Soo, watching Kiku out of the corner of his eye as he leant down and picked out another of his messier shirts. Kiku didn’t answer for a moment, before he shook his head, apparently breaking out of whatever trance he’d been under.

“Oh,” he said, his voice a little high and his face a little flushed, though that was hard to tell apart from the already-present effects of the alcohol. “Oh, nothing. Uh. You, um, called me by my name. That’s all. Yes, that’s all.”

“Yeah, and you called me by mine,” answered Yong Soo, defensive but not entirely sure why. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no of course not,” said Kiku, shaking himself again. They lapsed into silence, before Kiku once again broke from his reverie to look up at Yong Soo and say: “Would you come with me to buy another drink from the bar? I’ll buy you one.”

The whole name issue had Yong Soo feeling as though he was trespassing into a dangerous territory he had no interest in investigating once more, and since Yong Soo’s tragic injury seemed to have shocked Kiku into sobering up past the point that funny videos would be possible, this seemed like as good a distraction as any.

The trip down to the bar was eventful, largely because although Kiku was far more aware than he had been the first time around, physically he was still feeling the effects. Yong Soo at first was happy to let him lurch ahead, crashing into things and then apologising to them in hushed whispers as his feet apparently attempted to take a different route to the one the rest of Kiku wanted to make, whilst he hung back and laughed. After Kiku nearly pitched headfirst down the stairs, though, Yong Soo decided to help him again, since he didn’t really feel like paying a visit to hospital that night.

Kiku clutched onto his arm and was overcome by a fit of hysterical giggles, which seemed a somewhat inappropriate reaction to certain death, in Yong Soo’s opinion, but he shrugged it off and they continued on their quest, with Yong Soo now keeping a firm grip on Kiku’s shoulder to help with complex manoeuvres like turning without falling over and walking in straight lines.

When they finally reached the bar, it was mostly empty. Yong Soo was glad, not only for his own sake – because his bosses would give him seven kinds of hell if they found out he was getting pissed on diplomatic business – and also for Kiku’s sake, because he doubted that his own superiors would be all that thrilled if they found out their personification had spent his evening clinging to Yong Soo and cheating death by staircase.

It was strange – for seventy years Yong Soo had been convincing himself that he didn’t care about what Kiku thought, about what Kiku did – about _Kiku_. But after just five minutes of drunken friendliness, here he was, helping him out, fucking _carrying him around_. And Yong Soo knew, from long and painful experience, that this would lead to nothing. That tomorrow morning he’d inevitably wake up to Kiku leaving, receiving only a few stiff apologies and thanks to comfort him – assuming, of course, that he managed to wake up before Kiku slipped away.

Getting close to Kiku was impossible, and as far as Yong Soo was aware, a feat that had only ever been achieved by a select number of people – and Yong Soo wasn’t one of them. He’d thought he was, once, many years ago when he was just on the cusp of adulthood, back in the Ming Dynasty when Kiku had still been part of the family, albeit a distant and rarely seen part. Because back then they’d been friends – or so Yong Soo had thought – as he hung on to the every word of the awkward, scrawny and gawky fourteen-year-old who’d managed to grow into a very attractive nineteen-year-old whilst nobody had been paying attention.

But then, after those wonderful, bright, sunlit few years spent together at Yao’s house, Kiku had returned home once more. They’d tried to remain in contact, but what with wars and politics it had been difficult, and the next time they’d managed to meet in person Kiku was full of the wonders of the Western world and Western people, and one Western person in particular.

Yong Soo never was able to full like João after that, no matter how worldly and knowledgeable Kiku claimed he was. It wasn’t just because he caught Kiku’s attention as Yong Soo never could, but because it was then that Yong Soo saw the first real split, as Kiku began his fascination with the West and began to see his family – began to see _Yong Soo_ – as embarrassing and old-fashioned.

But Yong Soo had persevered, even though their relationship became more antagonistic after that, hoping that once Kiku’s relationship with João had burned out, so would his interest in the West. It never did, but Kiku did seem shaken when Kha Lung and then Bi Seng were taken away and distanced himself. And then Sakoku had come, and Yong Soo had waited for him. He’d waited and waited, because Kiku had seemed so genuinely sad to say goodbye, and he managed to convince himself that when Kiku returned to the world, Yong Soo would finally be able to convince him that he was just as worthwhile and desirable as the Westerners. He bored his nearest and dearest senseless with Kiku this, Kiku that, until they all begged him to shut up. He counted down the days until Kiku’s return.

Then, the first time he saw Kiku after the end of Sakoku, he had a Western hair cut and a western sit and tie, and his eyes were flinty and cold when they looked as Yong Soo – well, he said ‘looked’, more like ‘skipped over’ – and that was when Yong Soo discovered the true meaning of heartbreak.

Yong Soo shook himself. The warmth he’d felt, that had been building since Kiku collided with him in the hall, had been utterly extinguished. He felt cold and hollow, and worst of all, furious. With Kiku, of course, for _always doing this_ , for always leading him on, consciously or not – but also with himself, for falling for it every time. For going out of his way to help Kiku, even when he knew with a bitterness born of personal experience that Kiku was very unlikely to do the same for him.

He looked around. Kiku had left him – no surprises there – to go and poke at a phenomenally drunk old man slumped over the bar with his face in a half-empty bowl of peanuts, who Yong Soo could only assume was ‘young Hirose-kun’. When he saw him looking, Kiku glanced up, almost lost his balance, tilted alarmingly, and had to use Hirose as a support before he smiled over at Yong Soo.

If anything, it just made Yong Soo’s insides colder and more leaden.

“I’m going to bed,” he said sharply. It felt like bile was rising at the back of his throat as he watched Kiku, and he felt as though he couldn’t bear it any longer. He spun on his heel, and determinedly marched from the room, ignoring Kiku’s bewildered call of ‘Yong Soo-san?’ as he made his way back to his room.

He wouldn’t – he _couldn’t_ – do this again. His heart couldn’t take it.


	2. The Turning Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was it, Kiku realised. A turning point! Finally! He’d been waiting for a turning point for ages. Sure, he probably should have managed to change this mess without a turning point – saying sorry was, in itself, a largely simple process after all – but at least it was something, right? A start? Something of a late start, but a start! Excellent! Kiku was a great believer in taking any and all opportunities that arose, and this was a brilliant one! He could do this!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....this..... this was meant to be.... a fluffy one shot....

**2.**

The next morning, after a not-particularly-restful night, Yong Soo wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised to find that he couldn’t see Kiku anywhere. Not with the Japanese politicians at breakfast; not in the elevator; not walking hurriedly down the halls and staring concernedly at some papers. Nope, he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Yong Soo could see ‘Young Hirose-kun’ sat on his own, looking rather ill, and staring at his cup of coffee as though he wished it was something a little stronger. Or maybe as though he was only just holding back the vomit. One of the two.

But Kiku was nowhere to be seen, and Yong Soo should know because for the first time since he arrived he was actively looking for him. It wasn’t like Kiku was so average-looking that he was easily missed, either – at least, Yong Soo didn’t think so – so if he had been about, Yong Soo would have seen him.

But he didn’t. Not a whisker. Clearly, Kiku had proven him exactly right, and was fully intending to remain utterly invisible for the entirety of the rest of his stay at the hotel – or as long as his stay overlapped with Yong Soo’s, anyway. It didn’t surprise him. In fact, Yong Soo felt a stab of a vicious sort of satisfaction at being right. It didn’t hurt or anything, of course, because Yong Soo was used to it and he hadn’t been so stupid as to get his hopes up, or anything. _That_ would be ridiculous.

Either way, it certainly didn’t improve Yong Soo’s mood, and by the time he’d finished all of the meetings he was set to attend that day, he was willing to meet that he was rather curt with his diplomats when he excused himself to go to bed.

He told himself that his mood had nothing to do with Kiku. It was just because the meetings had been so undeniably _boring_ and because he had so much work to do that night. Sure, it would have been nice to receive, say, a thank you for making sure Kiku didn’t pitch head-first down any flights of stairs, or offering him hospitality or to sit in his room, when Yong Soo could very easily have just told him to get lost.

Yong Soo stomped back to his room with his briefcase under his arm, doing his best to put on a scary enough expression that nobody would want to bother him. It was as he was attempting to channel Yong Mi – and damn, he needed to not think about her for the moment, he was in a bad mood already – and searching his pockets for his key-card that Eun Ae strode towards him, looking harried.

“Im Yong Soo-nim,” she panted, “Good, I managed to catch you. Jae Beom-shi called, and he wanted to know about some documents he gave to you before you left?”

“Oh,” said Yong Soo unenthusiastically. “Those. You can tell him they’re in my desk – second drawer down on the top of the pile.”

Of course, Jae Beom could have called him. He’d probably _tried_ to call him, but Yong Soo made a habit of not noticing Jae Beom’s calls because they were so long-winded and dull, and besides, Yong Soo had usually already told him the information he needed anyway. He felt a little bad that Jae Beom had resorted to bothering Eun Ae, but on the other hand, Yong Soo was really not in the mood to deal with Jae Beom today of all days.

The thought that Kiku had managed to get so far under his skin, apparently accidentally, with just one night of reasonably tame drunken shenanigans, made Yong Soo scowl once Eun Ae had bustled off again to call Jae Beom back.

Grumbling irritably to himself, he threw himself down at the small desk in his room and grabbed the nearest piece of paperwork in order to get started. In his experience, paperwork didn’t have quite the same lessening effect on his anger as, say, a punching bag did, but still. With a lack of better options, he was going to give it his best shot.

Four hours later – once Yong Soo had managed to finish his paperwork and the dinner buffet was closed for the evening – there was a knock on the door. Yong Soo, who’d been pacing whilst listening to music, jumped slightly, looking up. For a moment, he considered just ignoring it, but then he thought better of it, and reluctantly threw his headphones onto the bed.

Huffing – he was really not in the mood for another round of paperwork or political quizzing today, or god forbid Jae Beom – Yong Soo stomped towards his door, hoping to ensure that there was no logical way his boss could deny knowing what mood Yong Soo was in. As such, when he spoke, he spoke loudly, and injected enough irritation that even the most thick-skinned of politicians could miss it.

Unfortunately, in doing that he also injected rather a lot more volume than he intended, an amount that was probably a little unnecessary for answering a soft and polite knock at a relatively early hour.

“WHAT?” he all but snarled, bursting out of the door. Kiku yelped, jerking violently in alarm, and upsetting the two cups he was holding.

For the second time in as many days, Yong Soo found himself with hot chocolate spilled on him, this time on his arm and his shirt.

“Oh no!” Kiku scrambled to put the paper cups down and grabbed Yong Soo’s arm. “I’m so sorry! Did I burn you?”

The hot chocolate was certainly hotter than yesterday’s had been, steaming gently from their seat on the floor, but certainly not hot enough to be any more than a faint sting, especially since only about two drops had actually hit Yong Soo’s skin. Still, it did set Yong Soo wondering exactly how hot Kiku had his hot chocolate if he treated every tiny spill as though the liquid was molten lava.

Far more surprising to Yong Soo than Kiku’s chronic overreactions to extremely minor beverage accidents, though, was that Kiku was there at all. Even after Kiku stopped painting himself with the pattern of the carpet, or diving behind tables whenever Yong Soo entered the room, or however else he was able to be so completely invisible when he wanted to be, Yong Soo hadn’t expected to see much more than the occasional glimpse of him disappearing around corners or through crowds, like some sort of cryptid, for the rest of his stay.

“Who knocked on my door?” he barked out, whipping his arm away as Kiku examined it closely for any sign of damage.

“I did,” said Kiku, sounding deeply confused, as he would. After all, Yong Soo’s room was around the middle of a long corridor, meaning anybody else would have had to have sprinted the full length of it after they knocked to get away in time for him not to see them. Not only that, but Kiku had brought along two cups and two paper bags whose contents smelt like hot, buttery pastry.

“Oh,” said Yong Soo, because _duh, Yong Soo, duh._ Still, it didn’t explain _why_ , but before Yong Soo could ask Kiku had picked up the cups again and held one out to him.

“Here,” he said, “To pay you back for making you spill the one you had last night. And, um.” He nodded to the paper bag, which he was clasping rather precariously with the same hand. “There was somebody selling these things as I was walking back. They’re, uh, ponchik I think? My Russian’s not very good. But they look like donuts, and Roe-san said you hadn’t come down for dinner, so-”

“Roe-san – you spoke to Dong Geun?” asked Yong Soo, bewildered as to why Kiku would feel any need to talk to Yong Soo’s boss’s secretary. “Why?”

Kiku blinked at him – the expression in his eyes telling Yong Soo that the answer to his question should be obvious. “I needed to know your room number, Yong Soo-sa…” Kiku paused, frowned, and looked embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. Am I… okay to call you that?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Yong Soo replied, even though he knew he really should have come up with some bullshit excuse to make Kiku go away by now, and he _certainly_ shouldn’t be giving Kiku permission to call him by his human name. “It’s… yeah. It’s fine.”

“Oh good,” Kiku’s face cleared, and he stared expectantly at Yong Soo, nodding towards the hot chocolate and the bag of ponchik. Still amazed that Kiku was even there, and even more so that he had apparently gone through not inconsiderable trouble to ferret out a member of Yong Soo’s party to find out his room number, and then go trekking through the cold Russian evening to buy a hot chocolate and even some snacks for him, Yong Soo took them.

“Well, thanks,” said Yong Soo, once he had them in his hands, warm and inviting.

“You’re welcome,” said Kiku, looking relieved for some reason. “Listen, I wanted to thank you – you know, for taking care of me last night.” He blushed furiously. “I was – my behaviour was shameful.”

He bowed. Yong Soo stood awkwardly, not entirely sure what to do.

“It’s fine.”

“It was?” Kiku bit his lip, and then leant forward a little secretively. “Are you sure? Because I… deeply apologise if I upset you.”

Yong Soo knew he was referring to Yong Soo stomping out of the bar and leaving him last night, and that Kiku was probably looking for some sort of explanation. Well, he wasn’t going to get one. Yong Soo couldn’t possibly tell him the reason.

“Nah, it’s okay. I just… was a bit tired. It, uh – really crashed down on me, you know?”

“Oh, good,” said Kiku gladly.

They lapsed into silence. Kiku seemed to be building himself up to say something, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Yong Soo couldn’t take it.

“Well, thanks for the hot chocolate!” he cut Kiku off before he could even begin, “And the ponchik thingies – awesome! But I’ve got some work to do, so I’d better go – bye!”

And with that, he stepped neatly back into the room and allowed his door to slam shut behind him. Then he stood, waiting. But what for? If Kiku knocked on the door, what would he do? Answer? Yong Soo tried to tell himself that was ridiculous, and that he’d never let Kiku come back into his room after he’d made it quite clear that he was busy, but – well. Who knew? Yong Soo bit his lip. To his shame, a frisson of excitement was buzzing within him, making his heart pound a little harder in his chest. Was Kiku even going to knock? Or would he accept Yong Soo’s rather impolite dismissal and just leave?

Yong Soo set down his hot chocolate and ponchik as quietly as possible, still straining his ears, planning what he’d say when – _if, Yong Soo, if _– Kiku knocked.

There was a faint shuffle outside the door, a soft sigh, hesitation, and then…

Yong Soo’s hope curdled into bitter, crushing disappointment when he heard soft footsteps start up the hall. A pause made him perk up again, but after a long and tantalising second, the footsteps resumed, and Yong Soo was left standing there like an idiot, poised and ready to open the door, the beginnings of a plan for what he’d say as he answered the door withering into nothing.

Feeling spectacularly stupid, Yong Soo straightened up, picked up his hot chocolate and ponchik, and slowly went back to his desk. In all honesty, his first thought was to throw them out the window, but he decided against it. Partly because he didn’t want them to hit any passer-by, but mostly because – after skipping dinner – he was genuinely very hungry, and Yao had always warned against cutting off your nose to spite your face.

Mind you, they didn’t taste as good as Yong Soo expected.

~~~~

Kiku Honda was conflicted.

Of course, this wasn’t an uncommon experience, because Kiku seemed to spend half his life feeling conflicted about something (what tea should he get, should he tell Alfred to stop calling him at four in the morning or should just ignore it, was it worth catching the late train home or should he just stay the night in his office, etcetera), but it was rarely about something this… important. If it was important. He was conflicted about that, as well.

Usually he was indecisive about something unimportant – some small choice or minor annoyance. It did _not_ usually involve shattered friendships and how to fix them. (Those conflicts he saved for late at night, for when he could lay in bed and stare at the ceiling until his eyes were dry and achy.)

Should he have stayed? Should he have knocked at the door and insisted that Yong Soo let him speak? He’d considered going back, several times as he’d walked away along the corridor, and doing just that – but. But what if Yong Soo was serious about having a lot of work to do? Kiku didn’t want to put further strain on the situation by bothering Yong Soo when he was busy. After all, they were immortal. There was plenty of time. In fact, Kiku could talk to Yong Soo tomorrow morning before he left for his meetings.

But would he? Because Kiku had made similar promises to himself quite a number of times over his life, _especially_ over the last seventy or so years, and he’d yet to come good on them. If only he’d left his room that morning, when his courage was still fresh and he was still determined (and possibly also still a little bit pissed), but he’d been feeling rather delicate at the time. Some people were able to drink without any negative consequences in the morning, but Kiku was – rather unfortunately, and despite many years of drinking experience – not one of these people. Quite the opposite, in fact. The morning after a night on the drink usually entailed much vomiting, a blinding headache and a general sense of impending doom.

Plus, Kiku doubted that his diplomats would appreciate him attending a meeting looking – and feeling – so grim. He probably wouldn’t have any particularly useful contributions to make anyway, sick as he was and with little to no recollection of what the meeting was even about.

So he’d remained in his room, dividing his morning between frequent trips to be sick and laying in his bed and wallowing in self-pity (his usual hangover routine). By the time he’d felt steady enough to venture from the safe haven of the room, it had been mid-afternoon, and he was savagely hungry and still rather green around the gills. At that point Yong Soo – since he was a far more sensible and intelligent person than Kiku – had been busy attending meetings, thus leaving Kiku to stew, and allowing ample time for the doubts to creep in. Last night had been a fluke. An accident. Bad judgement on Yong Soo’s part – unquestionably, the younger nation wouldn’t want any reminder by today. Kiku should just leave him be.

But on the other hand – he was on a roll! Kiku had managed – from what he remembered, anyway – to spend an entire couple of hours with his South Korean counterpart without making anybody want to punch him even once. This incredible outpouring of very generous goodwill on Yong Soo’s part must be capitalized on, before it dried up.

In order to clear his head, Kiku had decided to go for a walk. He had very clear memories of the first time he’d ever got drunk, during a particularly fun evening with several Chinese princes as a teenager when he’d lived with Yao, and the next morning Harish – who’d been visiting with the cousins – had forced him to go on a very long and arduous walk, insisting that fresh air would do him good. Kiku was more of the opinion that it was a punishment for drinking so heavily more than anything, but it had still been his first hangover and despite the inherent misery of the event, Kiku remembered it with fondness.

So he walked, his head aching rather savagely, debating the merits of taking the entire pack of paracetamol he had in his room (after all, it wasn’t like he was going to die in any permanent sense), and then he’d caught the scent of the ponchik, and had come up with his clever ruse to tempt Yong Soo with sweet pastry treats.

It hadn’t worked out so well, Kiku reflected, but at least he’d paid back his debt by some small amount.

He chewed his lip anxiously. Maybe he _should_ have stayed, and pushed for what he wanted. Kiku was aware that many other nations thought that he was indifferent, or passive, but that wasn’t it, that wasn’t it at all. He just didn’t want to push too hard, because what if, instead of fixing the situation, he made it worse? Much better to respect people’s boundaries and do as they said. It showed that he was respectful, see. Or so he told himself.

Kiku groaned and kicked his suitcase to release some frustration. He just felt so _trapped_. He didn’t want to come across as uncaring – but he didn’t want to push too hard, either. There was a fine line between pushing to get closer and pushing people away, and Kiku was deeply afraid of crossing it – things were bad enough as it was, without him making it worse.

He threw himself down on his bed, and rolled onto his side with a hiss as it jolted his still-tender head.

Kiku wished, not for the first time, that he was better at this. Better at talking to people, better at communicating what he wanted to say, better at avoiding the misunderstandings that he constantly seemed to be getting into. He was just so _crap_!

The main problem of course, was that, well, he was just _afraid_. He was always so scared when he spoke to or thought about his family, because what if he made things even worse than they already were? Right now, no matter how bad it was, he could convince himself that the situation was still salvageable. When the right moment came, he would find the courage to fix things. But if he tried to do it and it wasn’t _exactly_ the right moment, he’d just mess things up. Kiku was confident that he’d just end up breaking things so utterly that things would never be repaired. And as cowardly as it was, he preferred this situation where the problem was still fixable to a situation where he’d never be able to make things right.

Just thinking that made Kiku angry with himself all over again. Gods, he was so _pathetic_! Why was it that he could run at firing machine guns or a bristling wall of katana with not a wobble, but the moment emotions and _people_ came into play he was reduced to hiding in his hotel room to avoid confronting the person he _wanted_ to speak to.

He was a coward, plain and simple. A detestable coward. He couldn’t even say sorry. Pathetic. Absolutely _pathetic._

Kiku pulled a face, and then reached down to pull the duvet up and over his shoulders. Look at him. Huddled up under a blanket because he couldn’t just fucking _talk_ to someone. He was hiding in bed like a _child_.

Kiku sat up suddenly. He didn’t know why, but for some reason – and despite this having happened on several occasions before this (pretty much whenever he’d spoken to his family since the war, and for quite a while before, to be honest) – this was the last straw. This was it. No more of this pathetic wallowing in self-pity whenever he failed to talk to people with any amount of effectiveness. No more after this. This was it.

This was it, Kiku realised. A turning point! Finally! He’d been waiting for a turning point for _ages_. Sure, he probably should have managed to change this mess _without_ a turning point – saying sorry was, in itself, a largely simple process after all – but at least it was _something_ , right? A start? Something of a late start, but a start! Excellent! Kiku was a great believer in taking any and all opportunities that arose, and this was a brilliant one! He could do this!

However, he was not nearly so over-confident as to believe he could do this without help, no matter how much he loathed asking for help. Because he’d _tried_ capitalizing on opportunities before, and he’d always lost his nerve. So he was obviously doing something wrong, and it would do no harm to ask for help. That’s what Harish had always used to say, anyway, and Harish was good at talking to people so Kiku was inclined to trust his advice.

He needed to ask somebody who was good at this sort of thing. Who knew stuff about family and relationships and – as sappy as it was and as much as Kiku cringed to think about it, even though it was true – love. And luckily, he knew exactly who to call.


End file.
